


Fall Out

by Elfbert



Series: Attention [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am a dreamer but when I wake,<br/>You can't break my spirit—it's my dreams you take.<br/>And as you move on, remember me,<br/>Remember us and all we used to be.</p>
<p>A sequel to 'Attention'. It will make much more sense if you read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Out

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Sal

### Malcolm

  
  
I hide my feelings behind hundreds of years of protocol. Inside I'm cold, outside I work mechanically, completing the tasks given to Crewman Malcolm Reed.  
  
I've been quartered with another crewman, Tim Crossey. He's from hydroponics and although I've seen him a few times on this mission I can't say I know anything about him.  
  
He's understandably awkward about suddenly getting a roommate who used to be a superior officer, I've tried to put him at ease, but I don't think I'm very good at that kind of thing.  
  
We work different shift patterns, so don't see an awful lot of each other anyway.  
  
Some part of me hates Archer for doing this on purpose. He could have worked it out so I didn't have to share quarters. He knows that I prefer to keep myself to myself. He could have kept me on alpha shift too, instead of putting me on the gamma 'graveyard' shift.  
  
He's doing exactly what I would have done were I in his position. Forcing me to interact with my new peers. Removing me from my old shift so I'm not working so directly with crew who are more used to me giving orders than taking them.  
  
All of my possessions fit in my new quarters easily, only taking up one shelf and one of the small lockers-come-wardrobes that stand side by side at the foot of the bunks  
  
My new role demands that Commander Tucker and I occasionally exchange messages over the computer system regarding work.  
  
I haven't spoken to Trip yet.  
  
I want to find a way of asking him for some of my personal possessions back from his cabin.  
  
I want to find a way of asking him a lot of things.  
  
I'm painfully aware of the non-fraternization rules though, however ridiculous they seem now that they've taken the most important part of my life away.  
  
So I'm trying to be the model crewman. God forbid that they should find reason to remove me from Enterprise. She's the only purpose to my life now, and my only link to Trip. The structure of command may be archaic, but at least it's something. At least I see him everyday, even if it is from afar.  
  


### Trip

  
  
He's taken it all without a word. I feel like that moment just over a month ago, when the Admiral passed out his punishment, Malc left me. I don't just mean not seeing each other, I mean it's like Malc stopped existing. Now there's just this body walking around, looks like him, but it isn't, not on the inside.  
  
I know Jon's watching me. He's watching me watching Malc. Making sure that's all I do, I guess. Not that he's got anything to worry about on that score. I thought I knew him—I thought he was a friend, beyond the boundaries of Starfleet, but now I just see him as a spiteful jealous man who's abused his power to take Malc away from me.  
  
I've passed Malc in the corridors, but he doesn't even act like he recognises me. Every message he sends to my engineering station is coldly official. I guess somewhere inside I know that's how it's got to be, but there's a part of me that thinks he's doing it on purpose, because I didn't admit to my part in this whole damn mess. I don't know if he wanted me to. In the armoury, after it happened he seemed pretty insistent, but I don't know if he was testing me, wanting me to argue harder with him. Now I'll never know, because he won't even look at me.  
  
Maybe I should have stood up for him on the bridge, I should have said it was me too. But I didn't think they'd punish him this harshly. And as soon as they did, well, that scared me. It'd scare anyone, wouldn't it? It scared me enough that I saved myself and left him to take the rap.  
  
I've punished myself ever since.  
  
He might be able to forget it all, but I can't. I'm not some damn robot, and even if I don't mean a thing to him anymore he still means everything to me.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
There was a message waiting on my console when I got back to my quarters today.  
  
 _To: Reed, Crewman M. From: Tucker, Commander C._  
  
 _I'd like to meet up and discuss some schematics at the beginning of your shift tonight. I'll be in main engineering. Tucker._  
  
I can't believe that's all he wants to discuss. There's no need for us to meet that late at night. He could easily ask for me to see him in the daytime.  
  
I don't want to risk him or myself further by ignoring the captain's orders and seeing him outside of duty. And I know how easy it is to keep watch on people on a Starship.  
  
I hope I can keep the discussion work-related. It doesn't seem as if I can escape the meeting, not without disobeying a direct order. Somewhere inside me I hope something extraneous will happen between then and now that will at least postpone the inevitable.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I hope he'll come. I wouldn't put it past him to invent some emergency. I'm not sure what I want to say, not sure I'll be able to say it anyway.  
  
But I know for sure I'll never be able to do anything about how I feel if I never get to see him.  
  
As the start of his shift approaches I can feel my guts knotting up. I don't know what I'm doing, but at least I'm doing something. Every time there's a noise in engineering I nearly jump out of my skin.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
Normally I'm early for my shifts. Not today.  
  
I walk into engineering exactly on time. I see Commander Tucker sitting at one of the workbenches. He looks distinctly uneasy. I square my shoulders, grip the padd I hold slightly more tightly and stride in.  
  
"Commander, I believe you wanted to see me."  
  
He jumps, and there's an unreadable expression on his face. "Malc...Malcolm," he stutters.  
  
"Sir."  
  
"I, um...you can drop the 'sir'," he says.  
  
"With respect, Commander, no, I can't."  
  
I know I'm being a little mean, but I don't want to give him the wrong idea.  
  
He looks crestfallen, as if he's lost any idea he may have had of why he called me here.  
  
"You mentioned schematics?" I prompt.  
  
"You...yeah, sure. It's about the, er..." he trails off, and I don't know if he even has anything to discuss properly.  
  
"If I might take the opportunity then, I have a system plan I've been working on that I believe will help with the number of blown relays we've been suffering lately, sir, if you'd like to look."  
  
I hold out the padd, keeping at least an arms length away from him. Work is my shield now. I know I can't let Trip start to lose it, I know that if we stray away from the strict constraints that duty sets upon us I'll be vulnerable. I won't let it happen. I won't. I can't.  
  


### Trip

  
  
For once I'm glad that Malc has an unending ability to talk work.  
  
I take the offered padd and scan through the diagrams and equations, not taking in any of it.  
  
"Looks fine, I'll take a better look later," I say, knowing I'm not up to discussing it now.  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
There's a long pause. I can feel his eyes on me, gaze steady, expectant. Expecting me to say 'I'm sorry', expecting me to crack up, expecting me to ask him why he sacrificed himself; sacrificed us, and everything we had together.  
  
"Sir? Is there anything you wanted to discuss about tonight's work schedule?"  
  
Expecting me to pull myself together and act like someone capable of giving my staff orders.  
  
He can do it. He can still carry on with his fucking job, so why can't I?  
  
"Er...no...yeah, there are some fluctuating readings in some of the power regulators to the water systems. Could you have a look if you get a chance? Details are in the engineering log."  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
I just nod.  
  
Then I realise I'm doing it again, standing here, lost in my thoughts.  
  
I look into his eyes and smile. There's not even a flicker of a response so I walk away, his padd in my hand. I head for my quarters and a large drink.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
That was nearly my undoing. His smile. It touched his eyes, until they met mine, and then it looked as if he was about to lose what little control he had.  
  
I quickly check the log and grab a toolkit, then head for the bowels of the ship, before anyone else can offer to help me. The last thing I want now is to see anyone.  
  
Once I'm safely hidden in a Jeffries tube I sit, my knees pulled up to my chest, face hidden in my folded arms. I try desperately to keep myself together. I take deep breaths, squeezing my hands into fists, but I feel my eyes filling and when the first tear leaves a trail of moisture down my cheek, finally coming to rest between my lips I know I can't anymore.  
  
I cry.  
  
I hate myself. I hate myself for being so weak, letting one person affect me this badly. I harshly wipe away the evidence of my emotions with my sleeve, sniffing.  
  
I begin working, taking out my anger on the ship. Every now and again my thoughts inevitably go back to Trip, and another tear escapes.  
  


### Trip

  
  
After knocking back the first glass of whisky I feel a little better, a little warmer inside.  
  
I have a shower and change into some more comfortable clothes. Debate going to the mess, but I really don't want to see anyone.  
  
My gaze rests on the padd Malc gave me. Well, I'm thinking about him anyway, so I may as well torture myself a bit more.  
  
I pour another generous measure of whisky and sit on my bunk.  
  
His ideas make sense, of course. I swear that if you'd given Malc the time he could've built Enterprise a hundred times better on his own.  
  
I finish reading the last paragraph and almost turn the padd off, but then I notice that the scroll bar isn't all the way to the bottom. I wonder what can be on the last four pages and scroll down. They seem to be empty, and I wonder if he just forgot to delete them. Then I reach the fourth page. There's one line of text.  
  
'I'm sorry, Trip.'  
  
I stare at it, then reach out and run a finger over the screen.  
  
Maybe my Malc hasn't gone completely.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
Even all the way down here you can still tell it's night time on the ship. Well, night time as we have it, anyway. It's artificially signified by a slight dimming of some lights onboard, and it's set to PST—just so that the Star Fleet bigwigs don't have to get out of bed to talk to us during the normal running of the ship.  
  
Doesn't make much difference out here. It's always the vista of night time outside our windows.  
  
The ship seems to sleep, there's an atmosphere I can't put my finger on. The witching hour, it used to be called. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few lost souls wandering this ship.  
  
Sometimes I feel like one myself, trapped in some ethereal realm. I'm here, but I'm not.  
  
Mother used to call it daydreaming, or being 'away with the fairies'.  
  
Trip called it woolgathering.  
  
Trip. He'll be asleep now. Or he should be. In our—his—bed.  
  
When I try to sleep I find myself reaching for him, trying to find his warmth.  
  
There's just a cold emptiness now.  
  
I need to pull myself together. I've been here faffing about for hours when Trip only asked me to do this job if I had time. I need to pull my finger out if I'm to complete all the tasks set for this shift.  
  
I scramble back through the Jeffries tubes, pushing the toolbox in front of me. I gather myself; fit on my mask of indifference as I step into the corridor. I know Trip thinks I'm being a cold-hearted bastard, but it's how I have to be. I can't let myself be weakened by emotions, not now. I can't even bear to think about the message I left for him. A part of me hopes that he doesn't find it, because he'll try to talk to me about it now, and that's something I know I won't be able to handle.  
  
Maybe the Vulcans have some things right.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I stare at the words for a long time. They are the catalyst for my brain to start working again. He's still there. I need to find a way to talk to him, properly, not as his commanding officer—as his lover. I refuse to believe Starfleet can come between us. I can't believe I allowed this to happen. It's so far beyond my control now that I don't even know where to start. I'm lost, and although Malc's words are a start to getting us on the right path I'm not sure what to do now. But I'm determined to do something.  
  
I can feel something inside me that's been absent since Malc's demotion.  
  
Hope.  
  
I know I have to send a message back. But I've never been good with words, not like Malc. He tries not to let people know, but there's a lot more to him than he lets on. He read me poetry once. I didn't exactly understand it all, but the way he read it to me made it come alive. There are a lot of things about Malc that made me feel more alive.  
  
I sit and stare at the padd for a long time, occasionally glancing at my chronometer until it shows the evening has long gone, and morning is fast approaching. In the end I finally tap out the lines of text on the small screen.  
  
'You have nothing to be sorry about. We need to talk.'  
  
I also add a note to the bottom of his work, agreeing to his plans and authorising the work to go ahead.  
  
Then I throw myself down on my bunk, still in uniform, and try to sleep.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I've completed most of the tasks I was set for my shift. I know Trip will forgive me for not completing the original list, yet still managing to fix the water systems. I hate that I know he'll forgive me. I wouldn't have let myself fall behind on my duties if it were another officer. I wouldn't have indulged myself, let my emotions go during a shift. It's not what I wanted. I wanted to stay strong, and now I know I'm not.  
  
Once I've packed away my tools in engineering I'm a few minutes late coming off shift. I wait for the turbolift, glad to be off-duty, yet also knowing that when I am I have to control myself even more strictly, avoiding questions from well-meaning friends, ignoring the glances I get from the crew.  
  
I am afraid that in allowing myself to become emotional earlier I may have pulled loose the yarn that will begin the entire garment unravelling.  
  
The lift doors open and I don't look up, instead standing back for the person waiting on the other side of the doors to exit before I step inside. I don't want to interact with anyone.  
  


### Trip

  
  
When I get up for my shift I look awful and feel worse. I wash and shave, then head straight for engineering, late.  
  
As the doors open I almost stride straight past the person waiting to use the lift.  
  
Except I recognise the chocolate-brown hair, the stance, I recognise everything about the man I'm in love with.  
  
"Malc!" I almost forget everything I've promised myself. Fresh in my mind is his message, the words that gave me so much hope.  
  
He jumps as if he's been shot.  
  
"Sir."  
  
His tone is flat and lifeless—and he looks appalling.  
  
"Ma...Crewman, I..." I fumble in my pockets, so eager to give him his padd back I can't remember which pocket I've put it in. "I...er...read your...proposal," I almost kick myself at the use of that word, "I mean, your ideas, for the relays. They're good, real good. I...um...here's your padd back, I'll happily authorise them. I mean I have, authorised them. I...we should talk about it. A meeting, then you can get on with them."  
  
I know I've made no sense, my words falling over one another as I try to keep my mind on my work.  
  
"Sir, I can't possibly be the one to implement the changes. It would require supervision and other crewmembers. It's a job for you and alpha shift. One crewman would never be able to do it. Keep the padd, you'll need it."  
  
"No."  
  
It's the first thing to come into my head. He can't do this. He can't shut me out again. I have to let him know we're not doing this anymore.  
  
"I read the padd, Malc, all of it," I say, knowing he'll understand.  
  
"Good, sir, then you'll need no further input from me. I believe I was quite clear. Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I need to sleep."  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
As soon as the doors shut and hide his shocked expression from me, I want to kick myself. I end up punching the wall, hard, then smacking my forehead against it and standing there, head leaning on the cool metal.  
  
I can't play with him like this. I know that. He can't possibly understand what I'm trying to do when I don't really understand myself. The message on the padd was meant to be the first step to us returning to being at least distant friends, to let him know I don't blame him, I don't blame anyone. Except I do. I blame me, I blame him, I blame Archer. I don't want to be bitter, but sometimes I am.  
  
I return to my cabin, Tim's there, sitting at the small desk, working, so I acknowledge him before grabbing my towel and wash kit and heading to the communal showers.  
  
Once I'm clean and dry I go back and sit on the edge of my bunk. I get one of my padds out of my locker and start to work. I know Tim keeps on glancing at me, so in the end I look back at him.  
  
"Are you okay?" I ask, hoping it doesn't sound too confrontational.  
  
"Sir...er...yes, Malcolm," he looks deeply embarrassed.  
  
"What are you working on?" I ask, trying to act normally, trying to get him to relax.  
  
"Oh, just...just an idea for a new species of potato. We have a problem growing some varieties in hydroponics."  
  
He smiles as he talks, and although I can't get that excited about potatoes, I suppose he wouldn't find a phase pistol trigger control any more fascinating.  
  
We talk for a short while—the first time we have, really. I learn a little about his family and where he's from, and I feel more comfortable around him. It's a bit like when I first joined Starfleet, getting to know my fellow crew when we were in training.  
  
In the end, after a pause in the conversation he speaks again, sounding hesitant, as he did when we first met.  
  
"Malcolm, you know, we all think Starfleet were wrong, to do this to you. I mean...I just thought you should know. Just because of one mistake, now they're treating you like you're not the best person to protect this ship anymore, and...well...we think you are. Some of us wanted you to know that."  
  
I sit in silence after his little speech. Half of me wants to snap, to tell him I bloody well know it isn't right. The other half feels like I'm not quite alone anymore.  
  
"Thank you," I finally say. "It...I didn't know anyone felt that way."  
  
"Well we do, and not just in hydroponics either, lots of people do," he says earnestly.  
  
I nod, trying to look as grateful as I feel.  
  
Once Tim leaves the room I lie on my bed, thinking. I'm tired, but I'm not ready to sleep. I think for once I feel quite normal. Only I haven't been 'normal' for such a long time now, I'm not quite sure what it's like anymore. I suppose I feel at peace, to some extent.  
  
So I lie on my front, pull out a padd, and begin writing to Trip.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I don't understand why he wouldn't take the padd back. It was clear what I meant. I thought...I thought he wanted me to reply, I thought he was ready to talk, or at least communicate. God knows if he's finding our separation as hard as I am then he must be pretty damn miserable.  
  
I'm not going to let it go easily though, not this time. I need to show him I care, need to show him that I don't give up, not anymore.  
  
I work my shift like a zombie, my staff constantly having to ask me questions to clarify my orders. I know I can't carry on like this.  
  
I don't stay in engineering after my shift—and I think my staff are grateful for that. Instead I head to the gym. Malc used to say he could think when he was working out, so maybe I'll be able to do the same.  
  
As I walk down the corridor from my quarters to the gym I hear footsteps behind me. I take no notice, not wanting to have to be polite to someone, until a distinctive voice calls out to me.  
  
"Commander Tucker?"  
  
"Ma...Crewman?" I have no idea what to say. Malc is still in uniform, and I don't think he's slept yet. I so desperately want to grab him, drag him back to my cabin and...  
  
"Sir, I believe you dropped this," he says, holding out a datachip from a padd.  
  
I know I didn't. But I take it from him.  
  
"Thank you. I thought something was missing," I say, trying to make my words have a double meaning he'll understand.  
  
As I look into his eyes there's something there that I haven't seen for a long time, there's a spark, just a little one, just enough of the old Malc to make my heart soar.  
  
"Yes sir, I...wouldn't want you to lose anything important, sir," he says, looking deep into my eyes.  
  
And for once I know exactly what he means.  
  
He turns about and heads away from me, so I stand and watch him go, then I retrace my own steps.  
  
As soon as I'm in my quarters I sit at my desk, jamming the datachip into a nearby padd, and I begin to read.  
  
'Trip,  
  
I can't begin to guess what you're thinking right now. At the moment I have a hard enough time trying to understand my own thoughts.  
  
I know that a lot of my actions won't seem to have made any sense recently, but believe me when I say I didn't mean to hurt you.  
  
I thought, in some twisted way, that what I was doing would protect you. I don't mean the video, and telling everyone you weren't in the armoury. I still think I was right to do that. I'm referring to my actions since then. I pushed you away because I wanted to hide from myself, I wanted to pretend that nothing of my previous life existed.  
  
But this morning someone made me realise something. I can't give you up anymore than I can give up all the things that made me an armoury officer. Just because my rank has changed doesn't make me a different person, but I have new rules to live by. I know we can't be together as we were, in the same way I can't work on Enterprise as I did. But I'm still on Enterprise, still working, still striving for the same things, still as dedicated to her as I ever was. And I've come to realise I should be doing the same for you. For us.  
  
I am still dedicated to you, Trip.  
  
Yours M'  
  
I sit and look at his words for a long time. I have no idea who he spoke to to make him realise these things, I'm just glad he did.  
  
Now I lose my control. Every other time I've wanted to go to him I've stopped myself, knowing he wouldn't want it. This time I can't help but head for the crew quarters.  
  
I ring the chime on his door and wait. There's a pause before it slides open to reveal a dishevelled Malc. He's dressed in his blues and was obviously asleep.  
  
I can't do anything but smile at him.  
  
He looks up and down the corridor nervously.  
  
"You shouldn't be here, sir," he says quietly. "Someone could see you."  
  
"You'd better let me in then," I whisper back.  
  
He pauses for a fraction of a second before stepping back and allowing me to enter. Then he closes the door and puts a 'do not disturb' command on it.  
  
I glance around, seeing his new quarters for the first time. I immediately curse myself as I notice the second bunk. I should have realised he would be sharing. I could have ruined all this very quickly had his roommate been in.  
  
"Who are you sharing with?" I ask, trying to make conversation.  
  
"Tim Crossey," Malc answers. "Works in hydroponics."  
  
He sounds so low, so sad. And I give up all the self control I've been trying to hold onto. I step forward and gather Malc into my arms, holding him tightly.  
  
Slowly he puts his arms around me too, his fingers digging into my back as he grips the fabric of my workout top.  
  
We stay like that, the silence enveloping us. A few times I try to think of anything to say, but somehow I know my words won't be enough. I realise a comfortable silence can be so much more valuable than awkward words, so I squeeze Malc a little more tightly and allow my actions to express my emotions.  
  
Eventually a noise breaks the silence. I don't react, but suddenly Malc is pushing me away. As I turn I realise the sound was the door opening. Of course, 'do not disturb' notices can't work against someone who lives in the room.  
  
Tim Crossey stands staring at us, and my gaze is drawn from his shocked expression to the potato plant that's growing in a bag full of see-through goo he has in his hand.  
  
Malc pushes between Tim and me.  
  
"Tim, I can explain," he starts.  
  
But the other man shakes his head. "You've got nothing to explain. I'll go somewhere else. Just...comm me, take as long as you want, I don't mind." He quickly steps forward and puts the bag down on the desk, the plant lists dangerously as it teeters on top of the pile of padds.  
  
Malc nods, "Thank you."  
  
Once Tim has gone Malc saves the plant by placing it carefully on top of one of the lockers. Then I look at Malc, seeing the tired lines on his face.  
  
"You should be asleep anyway," I say gently.  
  
"We can do this, can't we?" he asks, not taking his eyes off me.  
  
I nod. "We can. We will."  
  
He hugs me once more. There have been times when I thought I'd never get to hold him again.  
  
"You should go, love," he finally says, pushing his palms against my chest.  
  
"I don't want to," I admit.  
  
"You have to. If you're caught here the captain won't react well. I don't want to give him any excuse to throw me off Enterprise on top of everything else."  
  
I nod, I know he's right. I desperately want to stay, but I know it's not the right thing to do.  
  
I take his hand and squeeze it. "We have to do this again. I don't know how, but I can't live like we were."  
  
"Leave me a message on a padd. Don't let anything get onto the main computer," he says, always the security officer.  
  
"I know, I won't," I assure him.  
  
"I'll try and see you. God knows how," he says. "We shouldn't do this again. Tim's okay, but I don't want to throw him out of here. It's not fair on him, and people will start to ask questions. He feels awkward enough about sharing with me anyway."  
  
I nod in agreement. I bet this is why Jon put Malc in shared quarters. No privacy, no space, nothing.  
  
We part with a kiss, one full of promise for the future and sadness for the present.  
  
Once I'm back in my quarters they feel huge. So different from the cramped crew rooms. I sit back at my desk, feet resting on it. I stare at the stars, remembering how many nights I've lain in bed watching Malc watching those stars.  
  
His quarters don't have a window. Hell, they barely have a desk. Malc must be feeling so claustrophobic. He needs space, space to think, away from other people. I know he finds people difficult sometimes. Almost as often as people find him difficult.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I see him again before my shift starts. He's having a snack in the mess whilst I fetch my breakfast. Although I still can't get used to having breakfast at dinnertime.  
  
I eat toast, not really feeling hungry, but knowing I won't get the chance to just grab something later like I used to when I was in the armoury. Now I can end up far into the workings of the ship for hours on end, and in my opinion any journey back to the inhabited parts of the ship are just a waste of time. Even though it's repair work it's still more efficiently done if it's planned. Take what you need the first time, then it's in and out, job done. Years of studying tactics have shown me that wars can be lost by wasting time. Disorganisation is the enemy. I hold that believe strongly in every aspect of my life.  
  
So what am I doing, wasting time that could be spent with Trip?  
  
We exchange glances, trying not to be obvious about it, but it's hard. I feel as if people are still watching me, the disgraced officer, so I can't do anything to communicate with Trip.  
  
I don't know how we can work this out.  
  
As much as I don't agree with what the captain did, I don't want to disobey his orders. Because I do respect him.  
  
When I reach engineering for my shift I find a message waiting for me on a padd. A first I think it's from Trip, but as soon as I open it I see the captain's name at the top.  
  
It's a short message, to the point.  
  
'Crewman Reed,  
  
Commander Martin Anderson will be coming aboard in two days time. He will immediately assume command of armoury, tactical and security from the current personnel acting up as chiefs of these departments.  
  
Captain J Archer'  
  
I read and re-read it, then sink down into the office chair. Trip's chair.  
  
Just when I'm building myself up again he does this. I mean, obviously I needed to know about...my replacement. But not now. And not like this. He could have asked Trip to tell me. Except he wouldn't even give us that excuse to see each other.  
  
I work my shift mechanically, purely going through the motions. I just can't bring myself to care about the work tonight.  
  
Very early in the morning, whilst I'm cleaning out one of the waste recycling units there's a noise behind me. I turn to see Trip standing there, a vision in his sweats and a tight t-shirt. He looks incredibly awkward and it's obvious he's just got out of bed.  
  
"I...couldn't sleep," he says quietly, as if he needs to apologise for being here. "I...uh, know what was in the message Jon left you."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I drop my arms down to my sides and the scraper I've been using to clean the walls hits the floor with a metallic thump.  
  
And half a second later Trip is there, arms around me, holding me tightly. I don't move, don't try to return the embrace. I just stand there, taking strength from his actions.  
  
"What are you thinking?" he finally asks me.  
  
I shake my head. Jon's his friend and my commanding officer. The sort of unprofessional thoughts I'm having don't need to be shared. Besides, I don't think I really mean them.  
  
"Why did you change the video?" Trip asks, pushing me away so he can look into my eyes, but still not letting me go.  
  
"There was no need for you to be involved in this," I answer.  
  
"And you don't think I'm still involved? You don't think this is affecting me?" he sounds incredulous.  
  
"I don't mean...I know you're hurting, but...what would you prefer? That we'd both been demoted to crewman? That we'd both lost our careers? You could be a Captain when we get back from this mission, you could have your own command," I try to stop myself gripping his t-shirt and shaking sense into him.  
  
"I'd rather have you," he says simply.  
  
And there's nothing I can say to argue.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I can see he can't answer me. It's only the truth though. I'd give up anything to still be with Malc. That's why I need to know why he did what he did. I need to understand him. He gave up everything for me. He even gave up me, although I don't for a moment suppose he ever thought that we'd be in this situation. He put his career on the line for me and now I have to find the courage inside myself to do something to remedy our miserable situation. I don't just need to learn about Malc, I need to learn from him.  
  
"We have to find a better way of doing this," I say, looking around at our surroundings. "I have to see you, Malc."  
  
"I don't...I don't know what to do," Malc answers, his voice soft, because that way when it cracks it's not so noticeable. "If the captain ever found out he'd probably have me thrown off the ship."  
  
"He wouldn't...not Jon." Or would he? I'm not sure I know anymore. "Couldn't you...doctor the video again? Do something that means we can see each other and no one can find out?"  
  
Malc stops and thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Not with this new security officer coming onboard. He'd notice."  
  
"You managed to fool the whole of Starfleet command. What makes you think one man will notice?" I ask.  
  
"Because I would," he answers.  
  
"But..." What can I say? He isn't your average officer, Malc's the best, because he cares—cares almost too much sometimes. He wouldn't allow himself to be anything but the best.  
  
"Do you know anything about the new officer?" he asks me, not meeting my gaze.  
  
"Not much. American, so Jon says. I've never heard of him before."  
  
He nods. "I've never heard of him either. I don't like the idea of anyone else working on some of the weapons development. Will you keep an eye on him for me?"  
  
"Of course." It's been a worry for me too. I honestly don't believe anyone will ever be as good as Malc at keeping the armoury running way above spec. I just pray we don't run into anything nasty before the new guy settles in and learns what a deep space mission is all about. I'm also not overjoyed that he's a commander, but that's just a personal issue. I would have preferred knowing a little more about him though. I assumed Malc would have heard of him, coming from the same departments and all. Malc knows of all the best people—which suggests to me that Commander Anderson isn't one of them.  
  
Although I can't believe command would send us anyone but the best, they know how often we run in to some sort of trouble out here. Or at least, how often trouble comes looking for us. I just wonder sometimes if politics on Earth matter more to them than the safety of this ship.  
  
"You should go," Malc says suddenly, breaking the silence. "I need to get on."  
  
I want to protest, but I know I'm not being fair on him. He has a job to do too. So I just nod.  
  
"We will do this, Trip," he says, seriously. "They can't stand in our way—I won't let them."  
  
I smile, wanting to believe him, despite not having a clue how we're going to work this.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
He leaves, and I bend down and pick up my scraper once again, then carry on with my job.  
  
I smile to myself as I realise it's not such a different job to my old role. I'm still trying to clear up the mess everyone else makes.  
  
The two days pass slowly, and although I know there's the usual buzz of gossip running around the ship about Commander Anderson, whenever I enter a room there is a painful lack of chatter.  
  
In the end, and feeling slightly as if I'm picking on him as an easy target, I ask Tim.  
  
"I take it you've heard about Commander Anderson?" I start, not pulling any punches.  
  
He looks totally at a loss for words for a moment, then nods. "Yes, sir."  
  
"So what are people saying?" I ask bluntly, ignoring his slip.  
  
"Saying? Um...what sort of thing do you mean?" he stutters.  
  
"I mean that whenever I go somewhere there's a serious lack of any gossip. I know this ship, I know it can't run without a healthy grapevine. I want to know what people are saying. I've never heard of him, other members of this crew may have served with him. I just want some basics."  
  
"Oh. Um, well, he's American, southerner, apparently. He's meant to be very...friendly. I mean, a very nice commanding officer. The armoury staff are—" he stops himself.  
  
"Are what? Looking forward to the change?" I give him a small smile, trying to show that I'm not bitter.  
  
Tim smiles hesitantly back. "They do say a change is as good as a rest, sir. But no-one could do as good a job as you do...did."  
  
Later on I think about what he's said. I think I'm glad no-one ever thought I was 'nice'. I don't see there being much room in command, especially in tactical and security, for 'niceness'. You need to be fair, balanced. And occasionally, where the safety of the ship is concerned, you need to be ruthless.  
  
I'm on my way to my shift when he arrives onboard. Trip's there, welcoming him onto the ship, along with the captain and T'Pol.  
  
Ordinarily I would have been there too. Standing at the back, out of sight, out of mind, but there nonetheless, watching and waiting for the time they'd need me. My childhood taught me to be seen and not heard. Captain Archer taught me that where the ship's security was involved, he'd really rather I wasn't seen either.  
  
Of course, now I'm going to have to wait until I catch a glimpse of the man in the mess or something. Just like the rest of the crew.  
  
I finish my shift without incident, then make my way back to engineering, packing away my toolkit. I notice someone has left the place in a mess and decide I should tidy it. Alpha shift don't need to spend their time searching for misplaced tools or equipment.  
  
As I finish my self-appointed task I hear a loud voice and laughter from near the warp drive. I stand up and straighten my uniform, although with the assortment of oil and grease stains it's gathered recently I'm never going to look perfect.  
  
Trip walks around the corner with another man. I immediately notice the three pips above his red piping and snap into the sharpest of salutes, standing to attention.  
  
Trip looks totally taken aback. I don't suppose he was expecting to see me, my shift having ended half an hour ago.  
  
"Err...I...Crewman, this is Commander Anderson. Commander, this is L...Crewman Reed," he manages to get through the introductions without stumbling over my rank too much.  
  
"I told you, Charlie, call me Marty," Anderson says to Trip. Then turns to me. "Martin—call me Marty—Anderson," he beams and offers me a hand. Then freezes. "Reed? Oh, hey, are you..." he looks to Trip for help.  
  
"Yes, it's Malcolm's post you're taking over," Trip answers the unasked question.  
  
"Oh, hey, Mal—do you mind if I call you Mal? Hey, no hard feelings, huh? You an me'll have to get together an' share a few beers one night, huh?"  
  
I stare back at the man. "That would be...slightly inappropriate, given our ranks, sir," I say as politely as I can manage. 'And yes I do bloody mind you calling me Mal' I add silently.  
  
He looks a little confused, but nods anyway, the smile he seems to permanently wear creeps back onto his face even after I'd so effectively chased it away. "Maybe when we get to know each other a lil' better then, huh?"  
  
I just smile an insincere smile.  
  
"Anyway, we should carry on your tour, er..Marty," Trip breaks in. "Then we can get you...I can show you your office and leave you to get to know your crew." He almost grimaces as he says it.  
  
"Sure thing, whatever you say, Charlie, Just you lead the way." Then he turns back to me. "I'm sure we'll see a lot more of each other, huh?"  
  
I snap another salute in answer. If Trip makes it around the ship without shoving 'call me Marty' out of an airlock it will be an opportunity lost.  
  
As they head toward the door Trip turns once to look at me. He rolls his eyes dramatically and I can't help but smile back at him.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I swear, I'm gonna kill him. The next time he says 'Charlie'...the next time he says anything.  
  
"So Charlie, what does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?"  
  
Well okay, killing him would probably land me in even hotter water than Malc, but damn, I've never met anyone more irritating in my entire life.  
  
I gesture down the corridor. "Right this way...Marty. The mess is just down here."  
  
I pray I can palm him off on someone else. Phlox maybe, or T'Pol.  
  
We get a coffee each and sit down. Then my prayers are answered.  
  
"Engineering to Commander Tucker."  
  
I smile apologetically to Marty and make my way to the comm unit.  
  
"Tucker here."  
  
"Sir, could you come to engineering? We have a power control anomaly we need you to take a look at." I frown, but I'm not about to argue with a reason to get away from Marty. I turn to him, "Sorry commander, I've got to go and check on that." I try to sound apologetic. I think I fail.  
  
He just smiles. "Sure thing, Charlie, I'll find my own way back t' the armoury, don't you worry."  
  
I give him a weak grin and flee.  
  
When I reach engineering there's nothing spectacular going on, so I walk over to Crewman Davino, the one who commed me.  
  
"Crewman?"  
  
"Ah, yes, sir. I can explain." He turns and smartly walks over to the main bench, then hands me a padd.  
  
I frown, then turn it on as he walks away.  
  
The screen comes up blank, but I notice that once more the scroll bar is at the top. I move it down until I find a single line of text.  
  
'I didn't know how long you had the power to control yourself.'  
  
I almost burst out laughing, but bite my lip instead. Trust Malc to be the one coming to my rescue. He seems to be making a habit of saving my skin.  
  
I wonder what he said to get Davino in on the joke. Then I realise it wouldn't take much. Malc made himself well known in here, and I know my crew would do anything for him when he was a lieutenant. It makes me proud to know they haven't changed their attitude toward him now.  
  
I continue my shift with a more optimistic outlook on life. There's the odd irritation via the comm from the armoury, but otherwise I could almost believe things were getting back to normal around here. Except for one glaring absence.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
At first things seem to be going quite well under Commander Anderson. I even find myself getting a little...jealous. They all look so happy—my...his...crew. I mean, I see them, walking the corridors, chatting together, smiling. I see them in the mess hall. I don't begrudge them some fun, but I don't like the way Anderson's obviously changed the shift schedules and rotas. I had my crews running at optimum; armoury and security. I sometimes wonder if he ever has a full crew in the armoury these days.  
  
My worries begin when I'm approached by Crewman Winston. He stops me in a corridor and has a nervous look around us before beginning to speak.  
  
"Sir...I mean...Mr Reed. I was wondering if you had a moment."  
  
I nod, wondering what he could need me for.  
  
"I was wondering, sir, the schedule for running the torpedo targeting calibrations..." he pauses, and I guess it's because he doesn't feel comfortable speaking to me about the piece of equipment that brought about my downfall.  
  
"Go on," I urge.  
  
"Sir, we should run those regularly, shouldn't we?" he finally spits out.  
  
I nod. "At least every other day, more often if we encounter anything that could knock the arrays out."  
  
He knows the schedule as well as I do. I don't understand why he needs to ask.  
  
"They haven't been run since Commander Anderson came aboard, sir." His tone is urgent, almost pleading. "What should I do? I've mentioned it numerous times, but he just knocks me back. I don't want to go behind his back, but...I don't know what else to do."  
  
I'm shocked by what he's telling me, but I don't know what to do. I'm as powerless as he is.  
  
"You can't run them during gamma shift?" I ask, grabbing wildly at straws.  
  
"No sir, well, there are no crew in the armoury during gamma shift, not anymore. And he's had me polishing the floor plating for the last two shifts, when there's plenty of serious work to be done."  
  
I chew my lip, not knowing what to do. It's no longer my place to make decisions about running the armoury, but neither can I ignore something which may affect the safety of the ship.  
  
"Tell Commander Tucker when he comes on duty. Alert him to your concerns. You can tell him you've spoken to me, if you need to. Explain to him what a danger this could pose."  
  
"Yes, sir, I will," he nods. He looks grateful, and I assume it's because he now knows he's doing the right thing.  
  
"And Winston, we're the same rank now. Drop the sir. And you can speak to me anytime you need to, as can any of the crew."  
  
"Yes, s...thank you." He turns and walks briskly away.  
  
I vow to speak to Trip as soon as I can. There's little he can do at the outset, but he might be able to drop in and check on the running of the place, under the guise of being friendly. If he finds anything more serious wrong then he'll have to bring it to the attention of Captain Archer.  
  
I have, in the past, been accused of being something of a control freak. At this moment I feel as if I couldn't do a thing to help Enterprise or her crew in an emergency. Even if I could get to the armoury or bridge, I still couldn't guarantee that the systems would be in working order. I've never felt so out of control in my life.  
  


### Trip

  
  
When the first query comes to me from a member of Malcolm's old crew I tell him I know it'll take a little while for them all to get used to the new routines Anderson's put in place.  
  
When the second crewman comes to see me I say I'll look into it.  
  
By the end of the week I have to admit there's a problem. I've spoken to Malc and he's beside himself with worry. I've even sent him into the armoury a couple of times during Gamma shift, under the guise of routine maintenance. Just to report back on the place. I mean, no one knows it like Malc does. It didn't do anything to calm him down, seeing how the place has been changed, but he could give me an accurate view on what he thinks has been neglected.  
  
Then I take the plunge and go to see Jon.  
  
Since what happened with Malcolm we've not exactly spent much time together. I think both of us feel a little awkward at the situation, but I don't want to throw away our friendship. I still think he was wrong to try and split Malc and I up. That was uncalled for, in my opinion. It was vindictive, and I hope that now time has passed, Jon can see how wrong he was to demand we split up. But since Malc and I have found ways to still see each other I'm feeling a little more forgiving. And maybe, if I talk to him, he'll see that Malc and I continuing our relationship has no effect on the rest of the crew or the running of the ship, and maybe he'll relax the stupid regulations.  
  
I ask Jon if I can join him for breakfast. He looks surprised by the request, but agrees. Maybe he's ready to see what a screwed up situation this is too.  
  
When I arrive in his mess there's an awkward silence before he gives a small smile and gestures to my usual seat.  
  
I sit down and he pours me some orange juice. Then I shake my head.  
  
"What's going on, Cap'n?" I ask, not able to hold it in any longer. "What happened to us?"  
  
He looks shocked. "Trip, you...you know I had to do what I did. You know I couldn't just brush the incident under the carpet."  
  
"And no-one expected you to! But..." And I just stop short of telling him just what I think of his blatantly unfair and heavy-handed way of dealing with the situation. I take a deep breath and start again. "Look, there are some problems I think you should know about. Anderson...he's not running the armoury like he should be." I hold up a hand to forestall Jon's reply. "I'm not saying that because of Malc, I'm telling you because every member of the armoury crew has approached me with concerns over the day-to-day running of the department."  
  
Jon smiles his 'I understand what you're saying but remember—I know best' smile.  
  
"Trip, I know it'll take a while to get used to Marty's command style. He's certainly a little...different to Malcolm. But you'll get used to it. He's well qualified and he came highly recommended."  
  
"With respect, I don't care what his recommendations say. He isn't doing the job. There are crew coming to me who've done their jobs for years and telling me something isn't right." I can't help but let the irritation creep into my voice. "Trip, you know as well as I do that Malcolm ran a tight ship. He was...overly cautious. I'm sure Marty is still working within Starfleet parameters—the crew just feel like they're doing less work because Malcolm's standards were so exacting. Believe me, if I thought there was a problem, I'd be the first to investigate. Have you been down there recently? It's spotless—in peak condition."  
  
And I know I've lost him. Before it would only have taken a word from Malc or I to have him checking out any aspect of this ship or her crew. Now, when we both have valid concerns they're being ignored.  
  
Maybe I should be glad Jon doesn't expect us to spend any buddy-time together anymore. It gives me more scope to sneak around behind his back and see Malc. It's a situation so far from ideal it makes me want to scream.  
  
I suddenly realise I should have gone to T'Pol first. She would have listened to me, investigated, and then she could have been the one to speak with Jon. He would have listened to her, I'm sure.  
  
But now if she mentions it he'll just think I've put her up to it.  
  
That evening I wait in engineering for Malc to come on shift.  
  
"Malc, I spoke to Jon," I begin, and I know he can read me well enough to realise I don't have good news. "He wouldn't listen to me. He told me the armoury's in peak condition and I would just have to get used to Marty's command style."  
  
"On the surface, maybe, but that's because he's had my...the crew polishing the place up rather than doing the real work. Tell me, since he's been onboard have we run a single tactical alert? Do the crew know how their new commander would react? Do they know what he expects of them? Does he even know what to do?"  
  
Malc can barely control his anger. I know he feels frustrated—powerless to do anything to help.  
  
"I'll...I'll keep trying, I'm sure we can do something about this." I assure him, reaching out and gripping his arm.  
  
He looks around quickly, presumably checking for other crew.  
  
"There's no one else here, Malc," I say quietly.  
  
He visibly relaxes, then looks up into my eyes.  
  
"I'm not saying these things because I'm...jealous, or out of spite, you know that. I am truly worried that something will happen to Enterprise. I don't know what Starfleet were playing at, sending him here, but I will not let him put this ship or her crew in danger." Malc's eyes blaze as he speaks. I've rarely seen him so passionate about anything.  
  
I pull him close into a quick, fierce, hug. "We won't let anything happen to Enterprise. I promise you."  
  
He nods, then breaks away. "I must get on. I...I know you'll do everything in your power...sir." He looks suddenly flustered and moves to the duty screen, calling up the tasks scheduled for his shift.  
  
I want to ask what's wrong, but I can't bring myself to. I'm getting used to his sudden mood swings, and I think a lot of it has to do with his position at the moment.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I can't believe the captain doesn't take the concerns of his crew seriously. The man is going further down in my estimations with every passing day.  
  
All I want to do is crawl into Trip's arms and block out the world.  
  
I know he notices when I awkwardly try to remove myself, using the excuse of work. I need him so much sometimes, and I find the only way I can deal with what's happening is to cut myself off.  
  
Trip leaves engineering and I try to immerse myself in my work. But I can't stop thinking about the armoury.  
  
Finally, in the early hours of the morning I can't hold myself back any longer. I head for the armoury, finding it empty and in darkness. I turn on the overhead lights and walk to the main console. My hands fly over the terminal with an ease of familiarity.  
  
I'm appalled by what I see. Basic routine is being ignored, the simplest tasks put off. The logs show a complete lapse in crew training and maintenance.  
  
I can't stop myself now I've started uncovering the true scale of neglect. I head for the torpedo launch systems and pull open the housing. At first I don't notice anything wrong and I begin to hope everything will be all right—my fears unfounded. Then I pull off the next housing. And I see it immediately. A chain of burnt out relays, the scorch marks obvious. This is gross neglect.  
  
I immediately set about changing them out.  
  
The noise of the door clanging shut makes me jump out of my skin. Standing, leaning back against the heavy metal door, is Anderson.  
  
He shakes his head. "Crewman. This isn't your department." He says it in his ridiculously cheerful voice, and I can't tell if he's trying to be threatening or not.  
  
I try to bank down my anger at seeing the man who's putting the entire ship in danger.  
  
"I noticed you had some relays that need changing...sir." I try to sound civil, but know that on some levels I fail.  
  
"Well y'know, we can do all that just fine without your help. In fact, I was going t' get someone right on it in the morning."  
  
It takes every fibre of my being to keep from asking what he had intended to do if we were attacked during the night.  
  
"Yes, sir," I answer, not stopping my work, because frankly, I don't believe him.  
  
"So don't let me keep you, Crewman Reed," he smiles at me, and I can almost hear his teeth grinding together.  
  
"I just thought...as I was here, sir, I may as well finish the job..." And I already know there's no chance he's going to let me stay.  
  
"Tell you what, Crewman, if you want, I'll try and integrate you into the security rota. How would you like to come down planetside next time? I'm sure I can put you on an escort duty. You'd like that, huh?"  
  
I've never felt more belittled in my life. It sounds like he's offering me a trip to the playground. Yet at the same time I can't—won't—allow myself to give up an opportunity that means I can ensure the security of my captain.  
  
So I nod. "Yes, I'd like that, sir." I feel crushed.  
  
"See, we can come to an arrangement, huh? I mean, I know you still probably think I've taken over here and I'm doing your job. But we both know Starfleet picked me as the best man for the position. You know there were a lotta people didn't think a lieutenant should be in charge of important departments—let alone head of three departments at the same time. And now maybe we've all learnt a lesson." He pauses, then grins. "That's probably why they picked a higher rank to try and sort out the mess here, huh?"  
  
I'm totally gobsmacked by the man's pure arrogance. I'm so shocked that I don't even respond. Can't think of a way to respond to the pure shite he's spouting.  
  
He leans closer to me and tries to look slightly conspiratorial. "And by the time you're a lieutenant again, well maybe then I can find you a more important role, head of my beta shift, huh, huh?"  
  
I almost choke, thinking of a hundred ways I could do some lasting damage to 'call me Marty'. But instead throw my tools into the box as quickly as possible and leave, throwing the sloppiest of half-salutes in Anderson's direction as I'm on my way out of the door.  
  
Usually I would extend the same level of professional courtesy to every senior officer and never dream of allowing myself to be so lax, but I just can't make myself respect this man, I hate him in so many ways.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I make my way to the senior officer's meeting with slight trepidation. I've got a number of things running around my head I want to bring up, all trying to show Archer they have made a huge mistake in allowing Anderson be in charge of the security of this ship. I don't want Jon to think I'm just going on about it because I'm fighting Malc's corner though.  
  
When I arrive everyone else is already there. Anderson is lounging against the console in the centre of the situation room, the polar opposite of Malc's old stance.  
  
"Ah, Trip, we were just waiting for you," Jon smiles.  
  
"Sorry, Cap'n," I answer on reflex.  
  
"Right then, we'll get down to business."  
  
We cover all the usual stuff, then Anderson speaks up. I know I'm not good at hiding my feelings, so I focus down on the console, not making eye contact with anyone, trying to word what I want to say to Jon.  
  
"Cap'n Archer, I was wondering, this Minshara class planet we're approaching, will you be wantin' to go down t' the surface?"  
  
His accent and mine might be similar sounding to some people, but I hope to God I never sound that dumb. And I know he's putting half of it on anyway, trying to get some of that 'good ol' boy' feeling going with Jon.  
  
"Yes, Commander, it's probable we'll be going planetside. The crew could do with some R and R, and the Wandeena—the indigenous species—welcome visitors and traders. So if they can suggest a suitable area I'll draw up a rota for personnel to transfer to the surface. T'Pol and Hoshi have been finding out about their culture and customs, and they seem very open to meeting new species, so hopefully this will be one first contact that will go smoothly."  
  
"Well, sir, if I could I'd like to ask you a favour," Anderson smiles.  
  
"Er...of course, yes," Archer stumbles over his words, obviously not used to his security officer asking for 'favours'.  
  
"Well see, I've been speaking to Crewman Reed. Mal would like to take a slightly greater role in the security of this ship, it seems. He's expressed an interest in being part of the team that goes planetside, so I wondered if I could put him on my roster."  
  
Jon looks taken aback. He glances around the group nervously, his gaze finally resting on me.  
  
"Um, stay behind afterward, Marty, we'll discuss it then," he finally says.  
  
I swallow, then speak up, afraid of the reaction I might get.  
  
"I was wondering, Cap'n, if we could discuss having some of the engineering crew work in the armoury for gamma shift?" There's a tiny pause as everyone looks at me, so I plough on, before I lose the courage. "It's just that—well, a few problems have come up—just little things, and I was wondering...if...maybe some of my crew could...help," I finish lamely. Somehow it sounded better in my head.  
  
Anderson laughs loudly, breaking the somewhat awkward silence that's fallen. "Well hey, it's a kind offer, and I like that—you tryin' to look after me, 'cause I'm the new boy?" He laughs again. It seems like an act to me, but everyone else is smiling.  
  
"No...I..."  
  
"Don't you worry, Trip. As soon as I teach the crew that they're all responsible for this ship—that safety is everyone's business—we'll be right as rain. It always takes a while to get 'em onboard, get 'em used to thinking for themselves. We'll all be getting on with one another in no time though, then thing's'll run even smoother than ever."  
  
Archer smiles, looking a little unsure of himself. "I'm sure Commander Anderson will ask for any help he needs—won't you Marty?"  
  
Anderson nods, grinning at me.  
  
"And Trip, that's a kind offer, so I assume you two can liaise over staffing as and when it's needed."  
  
This isn't what I wanted, but if I push it then I look like I'm being unreasonable, especially now Anderson's said about having Malc working back in security and everything.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I walk toward the sweet-spot, silently fuming.  
  
As I climb up the ladder I know Trip's already waiting for me, the hatch slightly ajar.  
  
I push it open with more force than is necessary, making it clatter on the deck plating.  
  
Trip frowns from where he's sprawled against the wall, immediately putting his padd down and looking at me.  
  
"What's up?" he asks.  
  
"Have you..." I stop, knowing that the anger and venom in my voice isn't for him. "Have you seen the shore-leave rota?" I continue, sounding calmer, even if I don't feel it.  
  
"No. Is there something the matter with it?"  
  
Trip reaches for my hand and pulls me to sit next to him. Then he lays my hand on his thigh, the soft material of his tracksuit bottoms warm to the touch.  
  
"He's put me down on the security list," I say, not needing to identify 'him'. There's only one person who makes me this angry and Trip knows it.  
  
"I thought you wanted to be more involved with the security? He told Jon you'd asked to be." Trip sounds confused.  
  
I wave a hand, not wanting to explain the full story.  
  
"He just wants to rub my nose in the fact he's here doing my job. Anyway, that's not the point, he's put me down on the night shift, guarding the bloody shuttlepods and on-call for any night-time emergencies. Alone."  
  
Trip puts his arm around my shoulders and holds me tightly.  
  
"Do you want me to have a word?" he offers.  
  
"No!" I pull away from him and stand up so hard the momentum launches me from the deck plating. For some reason this makes me even angrier, but there's little you can do to express your anger when you're in zero gravity. Every gesture just sends me spinning out of control.  
  
Trip stands up and gently pushes off from the floor, catching me on his way past and wrapping his arms and legs around me from behind, his momentum continuing to carry us upwards, his body immobilizing mine.  
  
I can't stay angry as he whispers endearments to me, holding me so gently. He moves one hand to stop us hitting the ceiling, allowing us just to float together.  
  
He slowly releases his grip on me and spins me into his arms for a kiss.  
  
"I didn't mean to insult you, saying I'd speak to him. I know you can defend yourself, I was just trying to help. You understand that, don't you?"  
  
I nod. "And you know I will go and do my duty, as I've been asked to, because even if I'm only there at night, at least I'm doing something. At least I'm helping more than if I were up here cleaning out the organic waste recyclers." I wave my hand hard enough to send us spinning again and Trip reaches out to halt our progress, his fingertips trailing along the wall.  
  
He obviously decides it'll be safer if we're not floating, so he flips us around until we're 'lying' on the ceiling, our bodies at right angles, my head resting on his stomach.  
  
He strokes a hand through my hair, and we're content to stay in silence.  
  
"Y'know at least if you're on night shift down on the planet I can come and see you. We can spend a bit of time together that way." Trip says, moving his hand to my shoulder and stopping where my rank pips used to be.  
  
"I will be on duty," I remind him, but even to my ears it sounds half-hearted.  
  
"So will I, I'm sure," he answers, and I can hear the smile in his voice.  
  
We lie in silence again, just enjoying the closeness that is so often denied us now.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I thread my fingers through Malc's dark hair, gently messing it up, but he doesn't seem to mind.  
  
He sighs audibly and I wish once more there was something I could do to help him. Malc doesn't accept help readily, preferring to rely on himself, not other people. And that isn't likely to change anytime soon, not when other people seem so adept at proving themselves stupid over and over again.  
  
I know he's due on shift soon, so I start to say something about him changing out the entire power supply to one of the goods lifts. Then the entire ship rocks. We both fall from where we're 'lying' and crash to the ground. I can't stop myself falling on Mal, my hip hitting the back of his head hard. I sprawl half-into the access hatch—almost tumbling through before I feel Malc's steely grip around my wrist.  
  
He pulls me back just as the ship-wide announcement goes out for all senior officers to report to their posts.  
  
Malc jumps into the hatch and slides down the ladder, hitting the ground running. I follow him, assuming he's going to engineering until he heads for the turbo lift.  
  
"Malc, where are you going?" I call.  
  
"To the bridge of cou..." he stops and hangs his head for a moment. I feel for him, because in the heat of the moment it must be so easy for him to react on instinct, and so crushing to be reminded that he's no longer the one Jon will look to in times of peril.  
  
"Where do you want me?" he asks.  
  
"Main engineering," I answer without hesitation. I don't care what Jon says, I need the best team at my disposal and Malc is the best.  
  
We run together, me shouting for status reports as soon as I'm inside the door, him heading for the consoles to bring up the reports.  
  
"Impact to the hull," he calls out. "Energy signatures are nothing I've ever seen before. At a guess I'd say it wasn't enemy fire, more likely to be a natural phenomena."  
  
He turns to look across to me and for the first time I see a trickle of blood running down his forehead. I open my mouth to say something, but he continues to speak.  
  
"The readings show no definite modular wave patterns and as we've only been hit once I would think it unlikely we're under attack."  
  
I hit the comm, "Tucker to bridge, are we under attack?"  
  
There's a pause before I'm answered.  
  
"There's no sign of another vessel, Trip, but stay alert," Jon says.  
  
"There are readings showing some kind of...organic matter...at the impact point on the hull, sir," Malc shakes his head. "If it was organic it must be remarkably resilient to survive in a low pressure environment. I'd imagine the faint energy readings are from some sort of field surrounding it." There's a short pause as he works. "I've remodulated the scanners to pick up the energy readings and I'm not...hang on."  
  
I've left the comm channel open, so everything Malc says is being relayed to the bridge.  
  
"We are now reading a small vessel off our starboard side," T'Pol's voice states evenly.  
  
I walk over to Malc, looking over his shoulder.  
  
"I don't think it's a vessel, Sub-Commander," Malc replies. "Although it is showing an energy reading I don't believe it has a propulsion unit. I think it must be some type of automated defence drone."  
  
I wait to hear Anderson's voice, not believing the man will stay silent through all this—he shouldn't, anyway. He should be the one supplying the captain with all the information Malc's calling up.  
  
The ship gives a very slight movement under my feet and Malc's head whips up.  
  
"We've just fired a torpedo," he says very quietly, for only me to hear.  
  
Then the familiar over-loud, voice comes over the comm.  
  
"It's been destroyed, no further damage to the ship."  
  
Mal'c shakes his head. "I don't believe it posed a further threat to the ship, actually, Commander," he states very evenly.  
  
"Better safe 'n sorry I always say, Crewman," Anderson answers jovially.  
  
"Crewman Reed, that will be all," Archer's voice cuts across any comeback Malc might have.  
  
I could punch Jon. Malc's just done all the hard work and still gets no thanks whatsoever for it. I vow to have a word with Jon, whatever Malc might have to say about it.  
  
I hear some chatter from the bridge but ignore it, instead turning to Malc.  
  
"You should get Phlox to take a look at your head."  
  
He reaches up and runs his fingertips over the now-visible bump, smearing blood as he goes.  
  
"It's nothing, sir. I'll wait until I know Enterprise is okay first."  
  
For once I allow him to stay, because I can see myself that his injury isn't too bad. A simple cut, probably from me falling on him and him catching his forehead on the raised edge of the hatch.  
  
"Okay, but as soon as we're done, straight to sickbay," I wait until he nods before turning away and checking on the warp drive.  
  
As it turns out we manage to avoid a diplomatic incident with some quick talking by Jon and T'Pol.  
  
The drone was part of the planet's defence system, and although whatever it shot at us gave us a nasty thump, it didn't do any real damage to Enterprise. Anderson was forced to apologise for destroying the mechanism, but the Wandeena were quite understanding. They explained that the 'ammunition' was somehow grown, hence Malc finding traces of organic matter on the hull. It was used because its energy field held certain properties that disrupted the defence shielding of many of the Wandeena's enemies. It was also a completely clean device, not making any waste in its production and not dangerous to any life forms the Wandeena had ever met. They apologised for it firing on Enterprise, explaining something about our warp signature being very similar to another species who had attacked them before, and were quite understanding about us returning fire—although a few of their government shown on the viewscreen didn't look quite as happy as the diplomat spokesman—but they just glowered from the back rows, staying out of the discussion between Archer and the spokesman.  
  
The ruling body of the third continent on the main planet readily agreed for us all to have shore leave, indicating a few areas where we could spend time relaxing and giving us permission to enter two of the main cities that were equipped for trade and tourism from off-worlders.  
  
For once we also escaped any sort of welcome banquet. One of the ambassadors assistants came aboard Enterprise and briefed the crew on certain customs that must not be flouted.  
  
Apparently the Wandeena never ate in front of anyone outside their closest family and there were also strict rules on when during the day food could be consumed.  
  
Jon and T'Pol were, however, asked to join in a ritual which sounded like it involved mainly sitting very still and staying very quiet. Luckily I was left out of that one, cos I'm no good at either of those things, especially not both at once.  
  
It seemed most of the Wandeena's plans only involved Jon and T'Pol in fact, and when I asked T'Pol explained that, given the circumstances, they were to play the roles of heads of the family—the Wandeena happy to consider the crew as one big sort of family or clan. Of course, they understood we don't really work like that, but it was the scenario their traditions demanded, and they didn't mind that some races needed a little leeway to fit in.  
  
It suited me fine anyway, as I intended to spend as much time as possible with or near Malc. Hopefully Jon would be busy with T'Pol doing all the first contact diplomacy stuff, and we could slip away when Malc wasn't working.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I'm in the small-arms room, off the armoury, checking the phase pistols for the away mission. Anderson hasn't exactly given me permission to be in here, but he did tell me to prepare for my security detail. This being the fifth phase pistol I've stripped down and worked on only means my preparation is more thorough than some people's.  
  
A noise behind me makes me turn and I see Anderson approaching. I move so my back is to the weapon's cabinets and stand to attention.  
  
"Sir," I greet him.  
  
"Well, Crewman, how did I guess you'd be somewhere in my armoury?" he asks, with a forced cheer.  
  
I stiffen slightly. "I'm preparing for my detail, as ordered, sir."  
  
Anderson shakes his head, then picks up the phase pistol, sighting down it as if he's trying to act out a part in some gangster movie. "I don't remember ever tellin' anyone to come into my armoury," he says, his voice still light and cheery, but with a definite dark undercurrent.  
  
I don't say anything, assuming he'll fill the silence. He does.  
  
"The captain and I discussed it, and we've decided there's no need for phase pistols on the planet," he smiles. "So I suggest you get out, now. And don't let me find you in here again."  
  
"But Sir, if we're having a security detail surely..."  
  
Anderson cuts me off, and somehow the phase pistol in his hand is now aimed at my stomach. And I know it works. "There isn't a discussion here, Crewman. I've told you to leave my armoury. I've told you that you're going down to the planet without side arms. I told you that my crews will do all the work in the armoury. And, Crewman," he leans closer to me so I can smell coffee on his breath. "I know that you've been telling tales to Tucker. And I don't like that."  
  
The silence that follows is palpable. Neither of us breaks eye contact.  
  
"So, Crewman, you better leave, and if I find you in here again I'll have you shot as an intruder. If you start messing around when I'm trying to do my job on the bridge, butting in and telling Archer what you think is going on I'll tell him that you're not settling, working with your old crew, and I'll get you removed from Enterprise. And if anyone, especially Tucker, comes to me and tells me you've been sniffin' around and pickin' faults in here then you'd better hope you and I never meet in a lonely corridor or down in one of those cargo bays...you catch my drift?"  
  
There's nothing I can do. He's never going to listen to me anyway, so I abruptly turn to leave. I get a small glimmer of satisfaction when he jumps as I start to move. He's nervous, scared of me, even when he's the one holding the phase pistol.  
  
When I'm almost at the door he calls out.  
  
"Crewman."  
  
I take a deep breath and turn.  
  
"I didn't want you down on the planet—but I think the captain's worried if I leave you up here without a responsible officer in charge you might start using the shuttlepods for target practise again."  
  
And all I can think of is putting my fist so far down his throat that his smug smile will come out of his arsehole.  
  
I walk out, not even allowing myself to slam the door.  
  


### Trip

  
  
We all line up for the shuttle journey down to the planet. Jon and T'Pol give out last minute advice on local laws and customs, although they seem pretty relaxed. I stand with them at the front of the room, the sea of eager faces all smiling at us. R and R is always an exciting time—whether you just want to spend time with your friends or the chance to mix with other species, there's something for everyone.  
  
As I look around one person is separate from the crowd—both with his miserable expression and his uniform where everyone else is in civvies. Malc stands by the doorway, looking at his feet but otherwise in a perfect 'at ease' stance. I know he'll be listening to every word that Jon and T'Pol are saying. I know that when Malc is on duty every part of him is dedicated to the job.  
  
I feel so sorry for him, although I know he wouldn't want me to. This was going to be a chance for us to spend a bit of time together, away from everyone else, but now Marty and Jon have conspired to have him on duty whilst I'm planetside. I know that Malc asked to have a chance to work in security again—he'd never give up a chance to protect Enterprise—but they could have worked this out differently.  
  
Jon calls out the order to board the shuttles and as I make my way to shuttlepod one I pass close to Malc. I try to make eye contact, but he doesn't meet my gaze. His expression is dead, lifeless, as if every bit of him has given up. Except for the part driven by duty.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I'm the only one still in uniform as we head for the shuttlepod. Despite being the only security on duty the captain refusing permission for side arms means I'm not exactly capable of much.  
  
Everyone else seems to be planning evenings out or excursions. I plan to secure the area and wait. At least I'm going to be doing something though—even if all I'm doing is waiting. I'm there for the crew, should anyone need me.  
  
I watch as Trip joins the main group as they all walk toward the city centre. He didn't have time to tell me his exact plan, but I know he'll find a way to return to me sooner or later.  
  
I quickly tidy the shuttles and make sure everything is prepared for a fast take-off. I also take a moment to check that the shuttle's phase pistol is in its locker. I'm sure Archer has forgotten about it, or there would have been no reason for him to be so strict about me not carrying personal weapons.  
  
Then I walk around the shuttles, watching the perimeter as best I can in the gloom. I wish I knew what animal life might live in the trees surrounding me, but that's not something the captain ever thinks to ask about. I hope the crew are all safe. I don't like it when the captain just lets them roam around like this, with no set check-in times until an hour before the shuttle is due to return to Enterprise for the next groups to come down. If something does happen it could be over twenty-four hours before we know about it. It makes me feel uncomfortable, it gnaws away at the respect I have left for Archer and the hope I have for the rest of our mission.  
  
A noise makes me turn sharply, although I know it's only Trip from the even tread and the quality of the footsteps. Starfleet issue boots somehow sound different to anything else in the galaxy.  
  
"Commander," I murmur.  
  
"How'd you know it was me?" Trip sounds slightly affronted.  
  
"I can't give away all my secrets," I say quietly back, holding my arms out to him.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I stand in the secure circle of Malc's arms for a few moments before he pulls away, looking around again, always alert. I jump up and sit on the wing of the shuttle, hoping Malc will sit with me for a while. He doesn't, instead he's constantly moving, surveying the area. Once in a while he comes and leans against my legs, allowing me to rest my hands on his shoulders. I gently knead the muscles, feeling the tension in him.  
  
There are voices suddenly from nearby. Malc jumps, but then relaxes again, and I wonder what he's heard that I haven't.  
  
Then I see Travis and Hoshi walking toward us, and I understand he had identified them as friends long before seeing them.  
  
They look a little...nervous, unsure of themselves. That would never have happened before. I begin to get an inkling of what Malc must have gone through recently. Even if everyone's being nice, if everyone's showing support, it's still changed for him. No one is treating him the same anymore. Including me.  
  
After glancing at Hoshi, Travis is the one who speaks first.  
  
"Malcolm," he starts, then looks at me. "Um, Commander, we didn't expect to find you here."  
  
Hoshi looks nervous.  
  
"If you want Malcolm all to yourself I'm afraid you'll have to join the queue," I joke.  
  
"Did you need something?" Malcolm cuts in.  
  
"No, no," Hoshi answer quickly. "We just...never get a chance to see you any more. We thought..."  
  
Travis takes over, "We respect the captain, but this is stupid. And Commander Anderson is...he's no good, sir, he's...Enterprise needs you back, Malcolm, back where you belong. And we'll do anything we can to help you."  
  
I smile, but then I see Malc shaking his head.  
  
"Thank you, but Commander Anderson has been appointed by Starfleet. He is considered the best man for the position. Just...as long as everyone else keeps doing their job as best they can, working to protocol, nothing will go wrong."  
  
Despite wanting to argue with Malc, I know he's right—we'll all only be putting ourselves in the firing line if we go about this the wrong way.  
  
"We need T'Pol on our side," I murmur. "She's the only one left who can talk sense into Jon."  
  
They look surprised, but I just shrug. "He won't listen to me any more."  
  
Hoshi takes Travis' arm and starts to pull him away. "We'll leave you two alone," she says, smiling. "And we'll keep our eyes open for Commander Anderson—for the benefit of the whole crew."  
  
As they leave I turn Malc to face me, then bend down and kiss him gently.  
  
"Everyone's on your side," I say, my lips almost resting on his.  
  
"Yes, everyone." He moves away, beginning another patrol of the area. But when he's moved a few steps away from me, he turns. "Everyone except anyone who matters."  
  
I jump down and go after him, grabbing his arm. "You're saying we don't matter? You're telling me the whole crew of the Enterprise doesn't matter?" I'm incredulous.  
  
"I don't mean it like that—you matter to me, of course you do. But you don't matter to command, you don't have influence over the people who can change this. You said it yourself, even the captain doesn't listen to you anymore, because he thinks you're biased. He knows you're too close to me."  
  
Malc turns away, looking as if he's disgusted with himself. Then he spins back to me just as quickly.  
  
"And the only way we can stop anything horrible from happening is by making sure every member of the crew does their job above and beyond. The other day Anderson gave me a dressing down for changing out blown relays in the armoury. They'd been ignored. Had we been attacked before I noticed them we wouldn't have had a chance. He ordered me to stay out of the armoury. That's when he put me on this bloody guard duty. Trip, you're the only one who can check on things like this now, and you have to."  
  
I nod dumbly. "Sure, I can try to...I mean, but we're the same rank, it might be hard to explain why I'm in his department."  
  
Malc hisses with exasperation. "Find an excuse! You were always in the armoury when I was in charge."  
  
"Well things have changed now," I feel my voice rising.  
  
Of course they've changed, he knows that better than I do.  
  
"I'll try," I say more quietly, "I'll do anything I can."  
  
Malc nods, a sharp little movement, betraying just how wound up he is. "I'm just going to check around." And he walks away. I don't follow.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I take far longer than I normally would walking the perimeter that I'd defined for myself earlier.  
  
Two sides of the landing area are dense woodland, the local wildlife audible but not visible in its depths. I stand for a while, just listening. I can hear the city, a deep rumble in the background. It's close by, easy walking distance, yet sounds almost ethereal, as if the sound surrounds me, but the source is invisible.  
  
It continues to surprise me when people are vocal in their support of me. I don't know if I'm surprised I've come to mean so much to them, or if I'm surprised that they'd come out and say it. I wonder what I'd do, if the situation were different. Would I approach a disgraced officer? Something inside me makes me doubt it, and I feel a little ashamed.  
  
Eventually I turn away from the gloom of the undergrowth and complete my circuit, ending by walking up behind the shuttlepod. Trip is still there, a shadow against the white hull. I make my approach noisy, so I don't startle him.  
  
"You should get back to your hotel," I say to him quietly. "People will wonder where you are."  
  
He gives a little huff of laughter and shakes his head. "When I left Marty was telling stories to a bar-full of crew."  
  
The use of Anderson's first name sends a little stab of pain through me. I know Trip doesn't realise he's done it, and I know it shouldn't matter to me. But it's just one more step on the way to him being accepted by the crew—by Trip.  
  
For a split second I have the irrational thought that Anderson could take my place in Trip's bed too. I know I'm being completely stupid though, and almost laugh out loud at myself.  
  
"Won't you get lonely?" Trip asks, reaching out and pulling me close with an arm around my waist.  
  
"I brought a good book with me," I answer. Although I have no intention of reading it on-duty.  
  
Trip nods and jumps down off the shuttle wing. He glances around, then leans close to me, inviting a kiss. I can feel his hot breath on my skin. I close my eyes and concentrate on the feel of his lips on mine. His touch is light, gentle, soft. And not nearly long enough.  
  
He leaves, looking back every so often. I wait until he's out of sight before deciding to do another perimeter check. Totally unnecessary, but it's something to do.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I'm almost back to the hotel, head down, hands in my pockets, watching my boots scuff through the dirt, when I sense someone close by. I look up to see Marty walking towards me.  
  
"Charlie! Where've you been? We've just been having a few laughs in the bar."  
  
His voice is overly loud in the quiet street, and I flinch a little.  
  
"I felt like taking a walk—seeing some of this place," I answer quietly.  
  
"Well I can tell you their beer's good," he slaps me on the arm, laughing. His breath smells of the local brew.  
  
I smile politely, and remind myself of Malcolm when he first met me. My smile becomes a little more genuine at the memory.  
  
"Where are you going?" I ask, seeing that he has a bag in one hand.  
  
"Oh, same as you, taking a walk, seeing the place." His tone has changed, become more abrupt. I get the impression he doesn't want me to ask anything further, and I'm happy not to. I'm just glad I'll be able to get a drink in the bar without him in there.  
  
"I'll probably see you in the morning then," I answer, already moving off down the street. He nods and waves and continues on his way. I breathe a sigh of relief, standing and taking in the stillness and near silence for a moment.  
  
I find the bar of the hotel still reasonably busy, a lot of our crew, but there are also a wide variety of other traders, from on and off-world. Some species I can identify, most I can't.  
  
I speak to a few of my engineering guys and take recommendations on what to drink, then settle down for a quiet night, chatting with people as they come and go.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
Someone is making a noisy approach, scuffing along the dusty road toward the landing site. I stand half-facing that direction, but aware that the noise could be masking other sounds—designed to distract me.  
  
Then I see the figure and recognise it immediately. I was taught never to underestimate an enemy, but I can't imagine that Anderson has the brains or the wish to dupe me into some form of surprise attack. Still looking around I approach the commander. He smiles at me and stumbles slightly.  
  
"Sir?" I say, wondering why he's here.  
  
"Mal—how're you doin'?" he slurs slightly, or maybe he's just putting his accent on more than usual.  
  
"Sir?" I question again.  
  
"Jus' thought I'd come see how you were getting' along out here," he makes a wild gesture that takes in our surroundings.  
  
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you, sir," I answer, wondering whether he's drunk.  
  
"Good, good."  
  
There's such a change between how he is now and how he was acting when he found me in the armoury that I can't help but be suspicious.  
  
"Is there something I could help you with, sir?" I ask once the silence has stretched for an uncomfortable length of time.  
  
"Oh, ah, I...I jus' thought I'd come and sit here a while. Maybe we could talk, y'know, off duty." He hitches himself onto the stubby wing of the shuttlepod and slumps against the pod itself—a shabby parody of Trip's visit not long ago.  
  
"I'm not off duty," I point out, dropping the 'sir', because I'm sure he won't notice, and I don't think he deserves that level of deference.  
  
"I was in the bar," he says, ploughing on and ignoring my comment. "An' I overheard a few of the crew, y'know, they were talking, idle gossip, about the ship." He looks at me pointedly, so I nod, not sure what else to do.  
  
"Well," he reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle of drink, offering it to me. I presume it's the local form of alcohol, so shake my head. He shrugs and opens it, before continuing with his story. "I heard your name, y'know, so I thought..." He stops for a swig of the drink. I'm hardly surprised that I'm the focus of some of the scuttlebutt, so I don't quite know where this is going.  
  
"Well, I thought I should listen in, y'know, see what they were sayin', put them right if there were rumours or whatever."  
  
I nod, knowing that he would never have had any intention of doing such a thing—he just wanted some gossip.  
  
"Well lucky for you I did," he nods and grins. "Cos they...well, I know you pro'ly don't want to hear this, but you should know, they were sayin' that you...you and Charlie were..." he looks pointed, as if it's obvious.  
  
I look blankly at him, trying to work out if he's saying what I think he's saying.  
  
He looks a little frustrated at my lack of response. "Y'know, that you two are...they're sayin' you're a coupla fairies—queer. I just thought you should know. That's the sorta shit Charlie don't need, cos he's an officer, y'know, if they start thinking he's one of them gay boys." He makes a limp wristed gesture, just in case I missed the point, but leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid. "You should speak to the other crew—you're on a level with 'em, it'll be easier for you. Tell 'em they could be fuckin' up a good career if they say them things."  
  
I only wish he were wrong, but I know that in some places homosexuality still isn't easily accepted. Yes, the regulations state that there should be no discrimination, not for race, species, sexuality, religion—nothing. But you tell that to people who are passed over for promotion time and again—people who are good at their jobs. I heard the sort of institutionalized prejudice that still exists in some places from my father when I was too young to know what a queer was, or have any idea why they shouldn't serve on a naval ship. Now I'm hearing it from one of my own superior officers, albeit an inebriated one.  
  
I try to keep hold of my rising anger. I count to ten, I take a deep breath, and still I know if I open my mouth it won't be pleasant. And inside me a small voice is saying that outwardly Trip and I aren't even in a relationship anymore. As far as the rest of the universe is concerned, that stopped the moment the pips left my shoulder.  
  
"I very much doubt it would bother either Captain Archer or anyone else, were either Trip or I homosexual," I answer coldly.  
  
"It's easy for you to say," he nods. "But other folk don't think the same way. If Charlie wanted his own command...who's gonna want to serve on a ship with a queer cap'n? A crew like to know they can sleep safe in their beds, crewman, they don't want to have no girlyboy in charge of their ship—Christ, next you know it'll be all about what colour the curtains are in the ready room, instead of the important stuff people like you an' me care about—the fighting an all."  
  
I'm lost for words. It obviously hasn't crossed his mind for one moment that the 'rumour' could be true. I guess the beer is making him more loose-lipped than normal, and certainly a little friendlier toward me, but every word that drops from his lips hits my estimation of him like a lead ball, dragging it further down than I ever thought possible.  
  
He jumps off the wing and hits me on the arm. "Anyway, I'll leave it to you, now you know."  
  
I nod dumbly, words escaping me.  
  
Anderson salutes me with the bottle and walks away, weaving as he scuffs through the dirt.  
  
The night drags on, and I can't stop thinking about Anderson's visit.  
  
Despite the man being a total cretin and an embarrassment to the fleet, one thing he said stays in my head.  
  
'...other folk don't think that way. If Charlie wanted his own command...'  
  
And as much as I hate to admit it, he might just be right. What if Trip does want his own command? He can't exactly put a rider on his promotion that he wants me to serve with him. And maybe Anderson's right, maybe the average crewmember won't feel comfortable with a homosexual commander.  
  
I try to imagine what it would be like if Archer were gay. Hell, maybe he is, and we just don't know about it. I suppose the real question is how everyone would feel if Archer was seeing a junior crewmember. I know I wouldn't approve, whatever the sex of the crewmember involved.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I wake early the next morning, my head a little fuzzy from the drink I consumed last night. I get up and wash, then head for the breakfast room I'm there early enough for their eating period to still be on. I pick up some food—there are some strange pastry-bread things that smell nice—and put them in one of the small bags provided. Of course there are no tables or anywhere to sit, because of the Wandeena's customs, so I head off toward the shuttlepods. I figure the least I can do for Malc is take him some decent food.  
  
As I approach the 'pods there doesn't seem to be any movement, but before I can get close Malc appears. I still don't know what sixth sense makes him more alert to danger than anyone else, but I've been grateful for it on many occasions when he's saved our skins.  
  
"Bought you breakfast," I call out as I approach, and I see him smile.  
  
We sit in a companionable silence in the shuttlepod whilst we eat, although Malc keeps looking around and out of the hatch, as if he expects something to happen. After we've finished he stands up and reaches out his hand to me.  
  
"Walk?" he asks. I know he means 'perimeter check' really, but I'm still touched that he wants me to go with him.  
  
"Sure." I fall into step with him, and when he releases his hold on my hand I refuse to do the same.  
  
"I...was thinking," he starts.  
  
And something in his tone tells me this isn't going to be a fun conversation.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
There's never going to be a good time to ask questions like these, but I'm no coward.  
  
"I...was thinking," I pause. "One day, would you want to captain your own ship?"  
  
Trip doesn't answer for a moment, but I can feel his gaze upon me. I find something to study in the trees, not wanting to make eye contact in case he reads something into the emotion I know is showing in my eyes.  
  
"I guess, one day maybe. But not now. I like my job, I can't imagine...how would I command a ship, knowing someone else was in charge of her engine? It'd be like...like you, putting your faith in someone else running your securi..." and he stops talking, realising what he's said. Then he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I...sometimes it's easy to forget."  
  
"Well it's true," I say. "I don't feel comfortable with him in charge—no one does. Well, no one except Captain Archer. Anderson's allowing standards to slip and endangering Enterprise and her crew."  
  
"Well exactly—I mean, so...one day, maybe I'd consider it—having my own ship, I mean, but for now, I'm happy where I am. With you by my side," he smiles.  
  
Even though it's the answer I wanted I can't help but wonder if he's just saying it to make me feel better.  
  


### Trip

  
  
Once we're safely back on Enterprise and every crew rotation has been down for shoreleave we leave the system. Jon is still full of enthusiasm for the Wandeena, and I'm forced to stay after dinner to listen to him telling me all about their customs and religion.  
  
It is fascinating, but my attention wanders. I've noticed since we've been back on board Malc seems to have changed—I mean, I know he has to try and make the situation as bearable as possible, but now he's coming across as almost...subservient. It's obvious he's deeply worried about the security situation on the ship, and I am trying to drop into the armoury as often as possible, but I've got my own things to do.  
  
I debate going and speaking with T'Pol. I know she'll take the situation seriously, and even if it means Jon gets mad at me, at least I'll be secure in the knowledge I've done all I can to help Enterprise.  
  
The next duty I'm on the bridge for once, and I decide that after the shift is over I'll catch T'Pol and discuss the situation with her. I sit at the engineering station and try to plan out what I'll say, the only sound the hum of the engines and the occasional beep from someone's console.  
  
Without warning the entire ship shudders, almost throwing me from my seat. At first I think the cause must be on Enterprise—sensors should have alerted us to any other dangers.  
  
"Report," Jon shouts as he runs in from his ready room.  
  
"We have been hit by an unidentified object," T'Pol states calmly.  
  
I start, then quickly pull up the data on my console and see she's right—it wasn't internal at all. Something must have managed to get within firing range.  
  
"Tactical," Jon says, as he goes to stand over Travis, seeing what effect the impact has had on our helm for himself.  
  
There's no answer, and I turn to see Marty staring at the screen, his hands not even moving over his console.  
  
"Tactical!" Jon's almost shouting, waiting to hear the report that the weapons are online, shielding is up and what damage has been done.  
  
"For God's sake, Malcolm, report!" Jon looks up.  
  
And for a millisecond, everyone freezes—but we can't afford to lose any time, so Jon's faux pas is disregarded for the moment. Except I can see Marty's turning white. I wonder if it's from fear or rage, but have no time to worry about him.  
  
My hands fly over my own console, trying to call up the information Jon needs, but then, over the comm, comes a familiar voice.  
  
"Aft hull plating polarised at 87 per cent, weapons online, sir."  
  
The calm English voice galvanises people into action, and I look down to see what information I can supply.  
  
"There's nothing on sensors, cap'n. Whatever hit us, I can't see what it was or where it came from."  
  
"We have a sensor anomaly astern, port side," T'Pol says. "I'm re-running scans."  
  
"No hails are being answered," Hoshi supplies.  
  
"Find out what's going on," Jon says. "And Commander, either do your job or get off the bridge and send me some competent staff to replace you."  
  
Marty stares at Jon, then stutters a little and stares down at his console.  
  
"There's nothing to get a weapon's lock on, Captain ," Malcolm continues over the comm. I presume he's in the armoury. "We were hit by a round loaded with solid fuel though—the hull wasn't breached, but there is extensive scorching from the explosives used."  
  
T'Pol begins to call something out when we're hit again, and I presume she was trying to give us warning.  
  
"I've locked on to the source of the last launch," Malcolm calls.  
  
"Hoshi?" Jon calls, but Hoshi shakes her head to show that no one has answered any hails.  
  
"Fire torpedoes, Malcolm," Jon commands.  
  
There's a very slight tremor and I watch my sensor readings carefully. On the view screen we see a definite impact.  
  
"Fire at will," Jon calls. "Hoshi, keep listening for a surrender."  
  
"Captain, the torpedoes are damaging whatever shielding is cloaking our attacker," T'Pol reports. "Sensors are now beginning to pick up readings.  
  
"Biosigns?"  
  
"None so far," T'Pol answers.  
  
We have to unleash at least another four torpedoes before Marty finally says, "I think...their weapon system has been damaged. It's not powered up anymore."  
  
Correspondingly we stop firing. Whatever the thing out there is, it's now visible. It doesn't look like a ship, but I could be wrong.  
  
We establish it's lost all power and is seriously damaged. Jon turns to Marty and gives him a hard stare.  
  
"Commander Anderson, my ready room, now." Then he turns to the rest of us. "T'Pol, complete your scans and prepare a full report. Trip, go and check engineering and the armoury."  
  
I nod and stand up, hoping that I am reading between the lines there correctly and he's really asking me to check on Malcolm.  
  
I do drop in on engineering first, and check everyone's okay. As we've taken no serious damage there are mainly people working on cleaning up after the impact damage.  
  
Then I head for the armoury and open the doors to see Malc running the clean up. Whenever we're forced into taking offensive action the armoury always falls into a different mode—although everything still has its place. I look around and notice the safety casings and racking tethers from the torpedoes we have fired thrown into the corner as usual—and obviously the racking needs refilling from the cargo bays. At the moment there's also a torpedo lying on the floor between the two launch tubes—that's not normal. Torpedoes should either be in the launchers or on the racking. Malc looks like he's just preparing to hoist that one with the ceiling mounted grappler.  
  
"You did a good job," I call, addressing everyone. "The Cap'n was impressed."  
  
I know Jon didn't exactly say that, but I feel like the armoury crew deserve a bit of buoying up, especially as they probably had to work around Anderson's chaotic planning of the place. A few of them smile back at me, relief clear on their faces. Then Ensign Garaghon steps up. "Sir, with respect, we couldn't have done it without Lieu...Crewman Reed. We...we haven't done any attack scenarios for ages—and things have changed," he glances down at the torpedo on the floor, and I wonder what was wrong with it.  
  
Malc finally stands up and looks across at me. He looks almost embarrassed at having been caught back on his own territory. For the first time I notice that he's not in his uniform, instead wearing jeans and his blue undershirt. He also has bare feet. I guess he was probably in bed, or at least in his quarters off duty when the first impact came.  
  
"Malcolm," I gesture to the armoury office, indicating I want to speak to him in private.  
  
"Garaghon, Dennis, get that torpedo onto a workbench or something. Then re-stock the racking."  
  
Once his orders have been given and answered by a chorus of 'aye, Sirs' he follows me. I notice that no one even thinks to question their being ordered around by a Crewman. Malc still commands their respect, if not their department.  
  
When we're in the office I look out over the room. Malc stands at ease, watching me.  
  
"What happened?" I ask.  
  
"Sir?" he asks, and I can tell he thinks he's in trouble.  
  
"Trip, not 'sir'," I correct. "Were you off duty?" I ask, gesturing at his attire.  
  
He nods. "I didn't have time to get into my uniform."  
  
"Did you hear what was going on on the bridge, before you started reporting in?" I ask.  
  
Malc shakes his head. "I just knew there had been no information given regarding the tactical situation. I hope the captain didn't mind...I didn't know what else to do. Do you think he'll discipline me?"  
  
I smile and shake my head. "We needed that information, it didn't matter who it came from."  
  
"So he's not angry?" Malc looks genuinely worried.  
  
"No." I look Malc up and down, seeing that his hands are greasy and his t-shirt and jeans are also stained from loading the torpedoes. "Go and get changed. I'll come and find you once I've checked everyone else is okay."  
  
Malc looks down at himself, then nods gratefully.  
  
"And put some boots on, huh?" I grin.  
  
He smiles back and walks away, so I step back out into the armoury to find out what else the crew have to say about the department's readiness for action. Or lack thereof.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I walk away from Trip, relieved Archer isn't annoyed by my actions. The deck plating is cold on my feet as I walk toward my quarters, and I re-run my actions in the armoury through my mind, as I always do, mentally checking that I did everything I should have done. I was impressed by the crew and the way they reacted, and in small way I feel proud that they haven't forgotten me, despite Anderson's bad examples and poor discipline. They still know how I like things done, and they worked without complaint or question.  
  
Someone is walking quickly down the corridor toward me, so I move aside slightly without looking up, assuming they're probably dealing with part of the aftermath of the attack.  
  
The fist that hits me in the face knocks me from my feet, and I hit the wall as I go down heavily. I grunt in pain as I land on the floor, then a boot kicks me hard in the stomach. I curl up, protecting my head as a reflex, and look up to see Anderson.  
  
"You fucking queer," he hisses at me, spittle flying from his lips. "Mother-fucking arse-licker."  
  
He swings another kick at me, this time hitting my arms as he aims for my head. I grab for his foot, trying to bring him down, but all I do is leave myself open for a further attack as he tries to stamp on my face. Sheer desperation gives me the strength to swing my legs around and entangle them in his, throwing him off balance. But as he staggers backwards he lands his heel on the side of my foot. I shout out in pain as I feel his full weight crushing it, twisting my ankle over. Then there are loud footsteps by my head and I curl up in defence.  
  
But no more blows come—instead Archer lands heavily on Anderson beside me on the deck in some form of rough tackle.  
  
I start to drag myself toward the nearest comm point when security come running around the corner, and I realise Archer must have called them. I lean against the wall out of the way and try to catch my breath.  
  
"Take him to the brig," I hear Archer order, and he sounds angrier than I've ever heard him before.  
  
Another voice makes me look up.  
  
"Cap'n?" Trip asks, emerging from the nearby turbolift.  
  
I watch him as he takes in the scene, and as his gaze rests on me he starts. "Jesus, Malc? What happened?"  
  
"I just saw Commander Anderson," Archer answers, pushing himself to his feet. "He was...attacking Malcolm."  
  
Trip drops to his knees beside me and reaches out to touch my face.  
  
"I heard you call for security and Phlox—I..." he shakes his head and turns back to me. "Are you all right?"  
  
I nod groggily.  
  
"Think you can walk with me to sickbay?"  
  
I nod again and watch with a certain detachment as Trip wipes his bloodied fingers on his uniform before reaching out to help me up. And everything's fine until I try to put some weight on my injured foot, at which point I almost collapse again, wrenching my abused stomach muscles in the process. I decide I'd really rather not move.  
  
"Come on, Malc, it's not far," Trip coaxes. I just shake my head. Then I'm saved by Phlox's arrival.  
  
"Captain?" he questions, then notices me propped up between Trip and the wall. "Ah, Mr Reed, let's have a look at you then."  
  
I stay as still as I can whilst he runs his little medi-scanner over my obvious injuries.  
  
"Ah yes, no serious damage, although I fear you may suffer some rather spectacular bruising. Are you injured elsewhere?"  
  
I point downwards. "My foot, Anderson landed on it."  
  
Phlox kneels down, and Trip gives me a reassuring squeeze.  
  
As Phlox carefully goes about his work I find myself wondering about Anderson. I saw security taking him away, and I wonder what Archer will do to him.  
  
"Yes, you seem to have two broken bones in your foot. I suggest we get you to sickbay."  
  
Knowing Phlox doesn't enjoy close physical contact I look to Archer. "Captain?" I ask hesitantly, not sure of his reactions to me anymore.  
  
He looks across to me, and I hold my arm out, hoping he'll come and support me with Trip.  
  
He realises what's required and moves to my side. The look he gives me is wry and full of apology. "Malcolm, I—"  
  
I cut him off, "Thank you for stopping him, captain," I say. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't..."  
  
Archer shakes his head, but I think he's as lost for words as I am.  
  
We reach sickbay and I sit on a bed, my feet dangling over the side. Trip and the captain both fuss and ask if they can get me anything or do anything to help. Trip I can understand—the captain...his change of attitude bemuses me, but right now I'm more focussed on the spreading pain from my foot than on his sudden change of attitude.  
  
I can't help but compare them—the left is normal, the right already swollen and showing signs of darkening bruises. It looks a little misshapen, but I don't know if that's because the bones are displaced or is just the result of the soft tissues swelling.  
  
Trip stands by me, his hand on my back, ignoring Archer, or maybe daring him to say something. I really don't care anymore.  
  
Phlox is gathering things from around sickbay, so for a moment the three of us are on our own.  
  
"What are you going to do with him?" Trip asks.  
  
"With who?" Jon asks.  
  


### Trip

  
  
I don't know if Jon's being deliberately being obstructive or just plain dense.  
  
"With Marty...Anderson. What are you going to do about him?"  
  
"I...he'll be disciplined."  
  
I rub my hand gently over Malc's back, noticing that blood has started to drip off his chin.  
  
"I don't see how you can want that man on this ship," I continue. "Ever since he's been here he's done nothing but harm. He's a danger to the ship and the crew. I've been workin' harder, the crew have been doing their jobs twice over and Malc's spent more time trying to put right all the things that incompetent ass has done than doing his scheduled tasks. Can't you see you made a mistake and now you're so damn stubborn that soon someone's gonna pay for it with their life?"  
  
Archer stares back at me, not saying a word. I expect him to be angry. I'm ready for a fight, I'm finally ready to break my silence.  
  
"I...I'll have to speak to command," he finally says, then turns and strides out of sickbay. I guess the battle of wills has been won. Or maybe he's finally realised that his loyalties should lie with me—with this ship and her crew, not just with Starfleet command.  
  
I smile at Malc, trying to buoy his spirits. In truth, I don't know what Jon's going to say to the admirals, but I hope he's seen sense.  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
Phlox approaches me, pushing one of his trolleys filled with equipment.  
  
"If you could turn around and rest your foot on this," he brandishes a small surgical cloth. "I'll shortly begin the bone regeneration treatment, once I've set them back in the correct positions. But first we'll just check your facial injuries though, hmm?"  
  
I carefully put my foot up on the bed, but even my gentle movements sending sickening waves of pain through my foot and leg. Trip moves closer and rubs up and down my arm gently. I welcome his support, focussing on his touch rather than Phlox's. Then Phlox tips my head back and looks into my eyes.  
  
He asks me all the usual questions regarding my vision and how I'm feeling, then scans my face with his little machine.  
  
Most of the bleeding has stopped anyway, so he hands me a cool-pak, then presses a hypo against my leg. Almost immediately the pain disappears, quickly followed by all feeling in my leg.  
  
It's a relief, but the drugs slowly begin to affect the rest of my body and I sink backwards, Trip's hands support me on the way down but I feel too woozy to thank him. Once I'm resting back on the bed Trip gently holds the cool-pak to my face. I try to smile, but I don't know if I manage it.  
  
When I open my eyes again Trip's still standing over me, but Phlox has gone.  
  
"Hey," Trip smiles down at me. "How do you feel now?"  
  
I make a quick mental check. "Numb. Okay. What...did Phlox do?"  
  
"He just gave you the first go over with the bone-thingy. You know the drill," Trip's grinning, so I know I must be all right.  
  
"And...the captain?" I ask.  
  
Trip shrugs. "He hasn't been back down."  
  
I nod slowly.  
  
"It'll be all right, Malc. It'll be all right."  
  
I nod again, and I believe him.  
  


### Trip

  
  
Malc falls asleep again. Phlox said he'd be tired after the treatment, so I figure I'll take the opportunity to go try and sort things out with Jon. I tell Phlox where I am and assure him I'll be back, then I head for the bridge.  
  
When the turbolift opens I stand for a second, looking at Jon. I wonder what he's been through in the past few months. We haven't exactly spoken much recently. I wonder how long ago he realised he'd made a mistake. How long ago he realised he couldn't undo what he'd done.  
  
"Cap'n?" I say quietly.  
  
"Trip. My readyroom?"  
  
And I realise he's asking, not ordering.  
  
"Sure."  
  
Once we're inside Jon stands looking out of the window, his arms crossed. After a long pause he begins to speak.  
  
"I...you were right. I was angry and I took it out on Malcolm. It doesn't mean he didn't make a mistake, because he did—a serious mistake, one which cannot go unpunished...but...I overreacted. I know I did."  
  
I nod, waiting for him to go on.  
  
"But what's been done is...it's beyond my control now. It was Admiral Weil who passed down the order, and if Malcolm wanted to appeal...well, you know the process."  
  
I take a deep breath, knowing what I'm about to say could change our relationship forever.  
  
"Cap'n? I mean...Jon..." I hold my hands behind my back, a pose I see Malc adopt almost everyday when he's talking to people. "I...there's..."  
  
"Spit it out, Trip," Jon smiles.  
  
"The security cameras—Malc changed them. I mean, what you saw, what everyone saw, I don't know how, but he changed it. It wasn't Malc's fault that the torpedoes were switched to live firing, it was mine." The silence stretches, so I continue. "I went into the armoury, I hugged him, but...sort of...on the console, we hit the button, or something, I don't even know. I just know Malc changed the film to protect me, and now...this is all my fault. And I'm sorry, but I can't change what happened."  
  
Jon just stares at me and I stumble on.  
  
"I wanted to tell you before—but...I couldn't find the right time, the right words. Then Malc told me not to. He knew there was no point in either of us suffering any more. Don't...punish Malc for this. I knew what he did—or, I realised, anyway. He changed the tape to stop me being punished, he blames himself for what happened. He decided to take the fall because he felt guilty for not noticing. Really though, that torpedo—it would have hit the 'pod if he hadn't reacted so quickly."  
  
Jon stays perfectly still, looking at me, his expression giving nothing away.  
  
"I think this is a conversation we should be having with Malcolm," he says bluntly and walks passed me, through the door. I turn quickly and follow at his heel.  
  
As we make our way through the ship I haven't got a clue what Jon's feeling. He gives nothing away, although he's walking briskly and not looking at me—not usually a good sign.  
  
We finally reach sickbay and Jon strides towards Malc's bed.  
  
Malc's sitting up, and has obviously talked Phlox into letting him have a padd. He glances over and notices Jon, immediately trying to sit a little straighter. "Captain?" he glances quickly at me, then looks back at Jon.  
  
"Malcolm. Trip has just told me what really happened—how that torpedo was fired," Jon says, looking at Malc hard.  
  
"Uh...Sir?" Malc shoots me a desperate glance.  
  
"Don't play dumb with me, crewman," Archer snaps. "Is it true? Did you really change the security vids to protect Trip?"  
  
Malc looks hunted, trapped. He carefully puts down his padd and folds his hands in his lap.  
  
"I did what I believed to be the best thing for Enterprise, sir," he answers carefully.  
  
"And you still think that? You still think that by taking the blame for this Enterprise is better off?"  
  
Malc looks down at his hands, then back to Jon.  
  
"No, sir. Not anymore."  
  
Jon looks at me, then back at Malc. "Gentlemen, we need to come to some agreement here. When I spoke to command and explained what happened today regarding Commander Anderson's performance and his subsequent assault on Crewman Reed some things were decided—for the good of the ship. Malcolm...you've been re-promoted, but...only to Ensign," he turns to me. "In light of what I've heard today...I'm not sure what the two of you want to do. If you want, I can call headquarters back and we can ask if there can be some sort of...retrial, I don't know..."  
  
Malc looks at me, then back to Jon. "Captain? Couldn't we just...let it stand, as it is?"  
  
"You'd be happy with that, Ensign Reed?" he asks.  
  
"Sir...I'd be happy if, if...would you consider taking me back as your chief armoury officer?" Malc asks.  
  
Jon smiles widely, glancing across at me. "There's no one I'd rather have. Security, armoury, tactical—it's all yours, if you want it. It would make you the most junior rank ever to hold any of the positions, and if you don't want that responsibility without the rank to go with it...well, I would understand."  
  
Malc gives me a look, obviously waiting for my reaction.  
  
I shrug. "It's up to you, Malc. If you want the truth to come out, I don't mind. Whatever would make you happy."  
  
"Then...sir, I'd be happy to take the position of ensign. But...with one more condition," he looks up at Jon, his expression determined.  
  
"Go on."  
  
"That you allow Trip and I to...I mean...the fraternization rules, sir, could they be...relaxed?"  
  
The smile that plays on Jon's lips tells us the answer and I can't help but grin.  
  
"As soon as you're back on your feet, Ensign, get Trip to bring you up to speed on the briefings for senior officers. As for Commander Anderson..."  
  
"I don't think it would be appropriate for me to deal with his case," Malc answers. "I'm sure one of the other security staff will take care of it."  
  
Jon nods. "Perhaps you're right."  
  


### Malcolm

  
  
I feel a little sad, moving my few belongings out of Tim's cabin, although I can't imagine he's going to be sorry to get his room back to himself.  
  
Suddenly my old quarters seem a little lonely, a little large. My possessions don't fill half the space, and as I look around the place I don't feel at home. On my desk, next to a pile of padds, lie the rank pips I've been issued, yet to be attached to my uniform. The chime goes for the first time since I've been back and I limp toward the door, opening it to reveal Trip. As if it would be anyone else.  
  
"Ready to come home?" he smiles.  
  
I turn to look at the small grey room. "It doesn't feel like...home," I say quietly.  
  
Trip takes my arm and steers me out of the door. "I mean our home," he says gently.  
  
We walk down the corridor arm in arm, toward his cabin—one I'm much more familiar with. And I realise it's never been the ship that's 'home', it's always been her crew.  
  
Trip opens his door and moves aside, gesturing me in. I move to the window and look out at the stars. The view, though ever-changing, is always familiar. Trip stands behind me and wraps his arms around me.  
  
"All right now?" he says softly, his breath whispering over my skin.  
  
I nod, turning my head to rest my cheek against him.  
  
We stand in silence.


End file.
